Shootin' the Breeze

and random targets

Archive for the month “September, 2018”

The Haircut

Shootin' the Breeze

I got my hair cut today.  Randy is my barber.  He is about my age.  We talk about sports and local news.  It is usually uneventful.

There was a young teenage boy in the next chair.  I learned, from eavesdropping, that he is in 8th grade.

Personally, I don’t recall ever crying in the barber chair, or at all as an 8th grader, so I had zero empathy when that 8th grader had a hissy fit.

Apparently, his haircut was not turning out as he wanted.  I could tell because he said that was not what he wanted, threw down the cloth thing they put around your shoulders to keep the hair clippings off your clothes, got up literally crying, and went outside, followed by his mother and the lady cutting his hair, who attempted to placate him, one of them bringing him water.

Randy and I shook our respective…

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Crazy Horse

Shootin' the Breeze

Crazy Horse was a Sioux war leader who was never defeated in battle.  He was one of the strategists at the Battle of Little Big Horn, where General Custer was wiped out by an alliance of Indian tribes. 

He fought to protect his home in the Black Hills of what is now South Dakota.  He was never defeated, but he did surrender and was taken to Fort Robinson, in the Pine Ridge area of Nebraska.  Sadly, he was murdered there, stabbed in the back by a bayonet, to the shame of his captors.

He died in 1877.  Many years later, Indian leaders persuaded an award winning sculptor, Korczak Ziolkowski, to build a monument such as Mount Rushmore, honoring Crazy Horse.  The “monumental” job was undertaken by the artist in 1948, but is still not completed.  Mr. Ziolkowski died in 1982.  His family continues the task.  So far, after six decades, only the face of Crazy Horse is recognizable.  It…

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In the Eyes of the Beholder

Shootin' the Breeze

This morning I am sitting in our sunroom as the sun rises and I wish my eyes were cameras so I could share what I see.

At our house, as with many other places, perhaps even at your own home, the sun is coming up in the East.  It has to come up between some low hills, lighting them with warm color.  As the light expands, the red and orange fades and spreads into neutrality no longer tinted but brighter. 

With the brighter lightness, I can see all directions, each with its own beauty.  To the North is a rocky ridge called Greyrock, half a mile beyond our red and white barn.  The ridge is not merely gray, however; it is interspersed with pink rock and green vegetation.  Beyond the ridge is a rock formation appropriately named Steamboat Rock. 

To the South are blue mountains.  They look like someone cut construction paper…

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In the Middle of the Night, She Asked Me

I try to not disturb my wife’s sleep.   Sometimes, despite my best efforts, others disturb Sugar’s rest.  For example, last night our 90 lb. puppy, Gus, who just celebrated his first birthday, came up to Sugar’s side of the bed and awakened her by sniffing at her lovely face.

However, it is my job to let Gus out, as he good and well knows, so next he came to my side of the bed and softly barked.  I awakened from a deep sleep, obediently sat on the side of the bed, waited for my consciousness to emerge, and started for the bedroom door in the utter darkness.

Before I got there, I stepped on Beau, one of our other Labrador Retrievers, who was sleeping soundly at the end of the bed.  I tried to lift my foot from Beau, out of kindness, I suppose, sacrificing my extraordinary balance to protect Beau, and landing on my bum knee and then my extended right hand, which did not support my lithe frame, which resulted in my laying on the floor at the foot of the bed, where Gus eagerly jumped on my prone form.

“Get off me,” I said from the floor, which disturbed Sugar, who reminded me that he is just a puppy.  I already knew Gus is just a puppy, yet I felt it would be easier to get up off the floor without a puppy on my chest.

Gus and I walked down the hall, across the balcony, down the steps, through the front room, and out the front door, onto the front porch, then down the steps.  Gus was happy to be out at 2:00 a.m.  I was hobbling on my bum knee, which was much more painful than it had been a few moments earlier.

Gus proved that it was worthwhile to go outside, as from a young age he had been taught to potty outside.  See post entitled, “We slept together the very first night.”

I returned to the bedroom by the same painfully difficult route of going up two flights of steps.  I stealthily slipped under the covers.  Sleepy Sugar hugged me and, with genuine concern, asked, “Did he poop?”

Apparently, she felt it unnecessary to inquire about my health after my fall.  That makes sense because she knows how tough I am.

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